


The Ballad of Dave and Doom

by sonnetstuck



Category: Homestuck, Oscar Wilde - Fandom
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 17:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8410468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonnetstuck/pseuds/sonnetstuck
Summary: And yet I knew a thousand hells   Were littered through this game:Some timelines scream before they die;   Some burn out like a flame;Some splinter with a selfish choice;   But most can bear no blame.
Some get dismantled all at once,   And some drag on and on;Some crumble slowly into dust,   Some flicker, pale and wan;The cruelest leave a few behind   When all the rest are gone.
Based on The Ballad of Reading Gaol by Oscar Wilde. Originally posted on sonnetstuck.tumblr.com





	

He always wore his dusky shades,  
For black’s the hue of tombs,  
And crypts and graveyards haunt your mind  
In a timeline that is doomed.  
I saw it on his face as I  
Sat watching from my room.

He strode across the molten plains  
In a suit of spotless white.  
A red bow tie adorned his neck,  
And his mood seemed calm and light;  
But I never met a boy who looked  
So weary as that Knight.

I never met a boy who looked  
With such a weary gaze  
Upon a vista harsh and cruel  
And ruddy with its blaze,  
And at minutes stretched to hours that flowed  
Into his stream of days.

I suffered trials of my own,  
And on my own I pined  
For the innocence we both had lost;  
But a whisper in my mind  
Threw a shadow on my every thought:  
“He’s leaving me behind.”

The walls drew in; my head, it spun;  
And my heartbeat began to race.  
And I focused on the task at hand  
As about my room I paced;  
And, though I was a player doomed,  
My doom I could not face.

I could not face that awful thought,  
The truth he knew as well.  
I saw it on him as he climbed,  
And more so when he fell;  
Though not our fault, we both were marked,  
And both were damned to hell.

*

And yet I knew a thousand hells  
Were littered through this game:  
Some timelines scream before they die;  
Some burn out like a flame;  
Some splinter with a selfish choice;  
But most can bear no blame.

Some get dismantled all at once,  
And some drag on and on;  
Some crumble slowly into dust,  
Some flicker, pale and wan;  
The cruelest leave a few behind  
When all the rest are gone.

Some end with whimpers, some with bangs,  
Some fall through endless depths;  
Some drown themselves with kicks and flails,  
And some just hold their breath:  
And each becomes its separate hell,  
Yet each does not grant death.

*

He will not die a death like mine,  
Or like countless other Daves’.  
His death will be unique to him,  
For just one can claim each grave;  
Each death is different, but all die  
Alone, unsure, afraid.

Most Daves don’t face the knowledge that  
Their fate is set in stone;  
That darkness hangs around their neck,  
And permeates their bones;  
That death can’t be averted; it  
Can only be postponed.

They do not see, within the mirror,  
A boy with nothing left,  
Whose every moment living  
Is a tiny act of theft,  
And whose eyes behind those heavy shades  
Are of every hope bereft.

They needn’t kill a swarm of foes,  
Then do it all again,  
While a cackling sprite annoys and cloys  
And drives them half-insane,  
Vexing their tortured waking life,  
And assaulting their sleeping brain.

And most young boys of thirteen years  
Can’t dream a world as bleak  
As that which he and I now haunt  
While for some clue we seek,  
And which we’ve been the captives of  
For three and thirteen weeks.

And most, I figure, teenage girls  
Don’t dwell in such dismay,  
While being quite unable to  
Keep morbid thoughts at bay,  
Not knowing if they will survive,  
Or simply fade away.

Most kids aren’t scared, and most aren’t snared  
In a hell with just one friend:  
The awful scars of lives like ours  
They could not comprehend;  
For who could tell them how it feels  
To stare into the End?

 

II

 

Four months this child walked the gears,  
In his suit of spotless white.  
His red bow tie adorned his neck,  
And his mood seemed calm and light;  
But I never met a boy who looked  
So weary as that Knight.

I never met a boy who looked  
With such a weary gaze  
Upon a vista harsh and cruel  
And ruddy with its blaze,  
And at every second slipping past  
And mounting into days.

He did not try to fight the rules  
That left us in this state.  
The boy conceded that we’d die  
And he was content to wait:  
The boy submitted to his doom,  
And he embraced his fate.

He did not try to fight nor push,  
Nor try some plot or ploy,  
He embraced his fate as if it was  
Appealing to this boy;  
And stoically embraced his doom  
As though it gave him joy!

And I, with trials of my own,  
Who still for innocence pined,  
Could never quell the quiet voice  
That whispered in my mind;  
I watched with fright the solemn Knight  
Who’d leave me thus behind.

And strange it was to see him move  
With a mood so calm and light,  
And strange it was to see him gaze  
So wearily at the night,  
And strange it was to think that he  
Would leave me to this plight.

*

For what will happen when he leaves  
And I am here alone?  
And what will come when the boy so numb  
To the winds of time is thrown?  
Yes, unprepared, all souls grow scared  
When facing the unknown!

It could all collapse with a sudden snap,  
And a shock I wouldn’t feel;  
The world might split and shred to bits  
With high and horrid squeals;  
And it would die along with I  
And everything that’s real.

But it’s worse to ponder if he leaves  
And nothing’s changed at all:  
No brimstone flames; it’s all the same;  
I sit, forlorn and small.  
And my childhood room will become my tomb,  
And ghosts will fill the walls!

Will I give up all hope and wrap a rope  
Around my neck and swing?  
My threats were empty once, but now  
I wonder what they’d bring.  
But if I live, could I forgive  
That boy for such a thing?

*

At last, he tells me that it’s time:  
The moment we’ve rehearsed.  
And I know he’s thinking not of me,  
And I feel an awful thirst,  
For the time he’ll have that I will not;  
And then – the boy reversed.

I’m still alive – but for how long?  
Is there any way to tell?  
And I’m still alive, for now at least,  
But soon will come the knell.  
Yes, I’m still alive. And I now will learn  
Just what is meant by “hell.”

A shroud of doom had trapped us both,  
And locked us in our fate:  
We worked so hard for all these months,  
But what did we create?  
Yes, the boy is gone; will I see the dawn?  
I sit. And think. And wait.


End file.
